


King Stag and Torchlight

by sam_ptarmigan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Gags, M/M, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_ptarmigan/pseuds/sam_ptarmigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <em>Thorin has borne many responsibilities from a young age, and due to his own standards of conduct, taking lovers is a difficult enough prospect, let alone giving in to submissive inclinations. Fortunately, he has an advisor and best friend who are more than happy to discreetly see to his needs when he's overwrought, sharing him between them and indulgently domming the hell out of him.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	King Stag and Torchlight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme.

He feels it in his shoulders first.

In truth, Thorin supposes the black mood usually comes earlier, quietly, bringing with it dark and fretful dreams. Yet he can hardly remember a time when his nights were not filled with smoke and blood, and if the terrors grow more frequent, he hardly notices. Most often, it isn't until he finds himself reaching back several times in a day to fruitlessly knead at knotted muscles that he first suspects his own unwellness.

Next are his eyes. He dreams that his little nephews, not yet born when Erebor fell, are lost in the burning depths of the mountain. They call for him, crying, but he cannot find them. He dreams of crouching in the red mud of Azanulbizar, desperately holding Frerin's head and body together. He wakes violently, thrashing, his fists clenched so tightly that he draws blood from his palms. There is no more sleep, and his eyes burn.

He hurls himself into his work and his plans, attempting to fill the restless hours. To no avail. His head grows dull and sore, feeling bruised on the inside like an overripe piece of fruit. He tastes iron in his mouth, and his words sharpen until his sister is no longer speaking to him and his nephews shy away from his footsteps.

Sometimes this is enough to bring him back to himself. He will go drinking with Dwalin then, and they will make themselves senseless and brawl with five times their number until their lips are split and their knuckles bruised. Then, dragged back to his lodgings, Thorin will sleep—or better yet, lie unconscious—until the pain of overindulgence distracts him from the pain of inaction.

Other times, it is not so simple. A week has passed since Dis last let him over the threshold, and he has approached Dwalin three times and three times has turned back, knowing that in his current state, he might well kill someone if he lets himself be drawn into a drunken fight. There are far more important matters to see to anyhow: conflicts to resolve, and trades to negotiate, and the certainty that his people's fortune can change if he is only sharp enough to see it and bold enough to seize it.

"Thorin."

Finally, it is Dwalin who comes to him. And to his shame, Thorin is so grateful he could weep. 

"What is it?" He cannot keep the impatience from his voice. They are in the marketplace, and Thorin is overseeing the livestock auction with a critical eye, watching once-fat dwarrows finger half-empty purses.

"Balin and I mean to go hunting," Dwalin says, just as he always says when it comes to this. "Will you join us?"

Thorin does not need to look around to know that Balin is somewhere nearby, discreetly within earshot. A glance over his shoulder finds him nonetheless, leaning against a fence rail and seemingly inspecting a spotted pit pony. Balin looks up briefly and smiles with convincingly bland politeness before returning his attention to horseflesh.

"When?" Thorin asks, looking back to the auctioneer. He had not felt the chill of the grey autumn morning until the heat from Dwalin's body warmed one side of him and reminded him to shiver.

Dwalin shrugs. "Tomorrow or the next day, if the weather holds." A pause. "Or today."

"Today..." He speaks the word deliberatively, as if it is a question and not a plea. "Today might be best. The rain will come soon enough."

"Today it is," Dwalin says and claps him companionably on the shoulder. "Let us pack up our gear and we'll meet on the eastern road at midday."

"Fine," Thorin says. "Midday."

He does not let his gaze follow Dwalin through the crowd. His attention remains upon the auction, and his posture holds steady and straight. He lets no sign of anticipation show upon his face, nor does he let a sigh of relief leave his lips. One never knows who is watching him, waiting for him to betray himself. The promise of misstep, mistake, and scandal follow him wherever he goes in Ered Luin.

In Ered Luin, he thinks, watching a skinny nag sell for too much silver. But not in the forests where the sons of Fundin hunt.

He retreats to his lodgings as soon as the auction is finished. There is not enough time to have a private tub heated, but neither will a quick scrub of hands and face suffice. He plunges himself into the frigid water, jaw clenched against the shock of it, and washes himself thoroughly until his skin is scoured from pale to pink and stinging from soap in sensitive places.

His travelling clothes are well-worn but warm: a plain shirt and pair of trousers, thick wool socks, an all-weather cloak, and boots worn so thin at the soles that he can feel the cracks in the flagstones and the ruts in the road. He packs only a bedroll and a few supplies in addition to his spear and his knife. Word is sent to those who need to know, begging pardon for his absence.

The day is warming by the time he saddles a mount and sets out from the town. It is not yet midday; haste brings him to the road early. He sits atop the low wall that bounds the narrow way to the woods, and he splits a mealy apple with his pony, carving off slices and waiting tensely until he hears the approach of hooves and voices.

"Hurry up, brother," Balin is chiding. "I told you we were running late."

In fact, the sun is still not at its peak and they are half as early as he is. They lead their ponies down the hill to where Thorin waits, and Dwalin blows a noisy sigh.

"And who was waiting for who to finish packing, then?"

Their ponies are both more heavily laden than his own. The makings of a tent are strapped across the rump of Dwalin's mount, and Balin's saddle bags are filled to bursting and swaddled in blankets. To Thorin, who knows what is hidden amongst the bedding, the bundles all but announce the trio's purpose.

He tears his gaze away, telling himself that to more innocent eyes, it is only indulgence. Balin's beard went all to white in the weeks following Azanulbizar, and his hair—shorn in grief after the battle—grew back to match. He has always had the manner of an elder, and as he climbs into the saddle, he looks like an old warrior gone soft, nursing a leg that turns stiff when it rains, and packing up half his bedchamber for a hunting trip.

Yet Balin was not wounded in the battle, and he has not gone soft, and Thorin would rather every dwarf in the Blue Mountains know the son of Thrain's weakness than think Balin foolish.

"Let me," Thorin says shortly, and he yanks the pair of goose down pillows from Balin's bags and straps them in with his spear behind his own saddle.

"That's kind of you, laddie." Balin bestows a smile upon him before glaring mildly at Dwalin. "Now why can't you be as mannerly as Thorin?"

A good-natured grumble is the only reply as Dwalin mounts his pony and sets out ahead. Thorin follows, with Balin bringing up the rear, and together they ride out.

The road soon narrows to a path as the trees thicken, and from there they veer off onto soft ground littered with undisturbed pine needles. Better hunting can be found along the stream that flows down from the mountain, which runs to a cold lake where beasts gather to drink. Dwalin, however—sat straight in his saddle with sharp attention—leads them away from the sound of heavy water, following instead a more humble tributary into the depths of the woods.

There is little talk. The brothers are kind enough to treat him as though he has an ale-head, and they do without singing or games as the sun passes from upon their brows to upon their shoulders. Soon enough, the silence grows; they venture so far from the road that the birds fall into startled silence at the presence of ponies, and here they find a place to stop.

"This will do," Balin announces, hopping down spryly and inspecting a shady spot under the sheltering boughs of a cluster of fir trees.

Dwalin dismounts as well, peering about them before shouldering his war hammer. "I'm going to have a look around."

The quiet of the woods is kind to the pressure behind Thorin's eyes. A soft breeze stirs, sending dry leaves skittering around his feet as he tethers the ponies and fetches them water from the little brook that trickles over a bed of smooth grey stones.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Balin set up the tent, and he lets out a breath that feels as though it has sat heavy in his lungs since the morning. He takes the rope and wire from his pack and crosses the brook, wandering out a ways to where the last of the well-nibbled summer grass has persisted. He busies his hands with the soothing work of setting snares, and he listens to the sound of Dwalin's footsteps, which move in expanding circles around the camp.

There's the stiff swish of oilskin and the hammering of a mallet on tent pegs, and then the rustle and thump of bedding being unrolled and spread. Then, silence, expectant and inviting.

Thorin's stomach seizes up. It takes two attempts to secure the last snare, but he insists on finishing. He rinses his hands in the brook and then presses his cold hands to his eyes. He then makes his way to the newly erected tent and steps inside, letting the flap close behind him, shutting away the world.

The tent is sized better for sleeping than for lodging. It isn't large enough to hold furnishings, but every inch of it is piled with blankets and furs, making a cosy cavern. Balin sits up against the pair of pillows, his hands folded upon his stomach. He smiles at Thorin's arrival and pats his knee enticingly.

"Why don't you have a lie-down, laddie?"

Thorin's face flushes. He takes off his cloak and tosses it into the corner, where his pack and spear have already been stowed. He takes off his boots. Yet he cannot bring himself to go further.

"Tsk. Come, now."

If there were anything mocking or dismissive in the click of Balin's tongue, Thorin's feet might have sunk even further into the earth. Yet there is only the soft insinuation that he is being silly, and he is, for if he wishes to lay himself down, he is certainly entitled to do so. He looks wryly at Balin and is met with nothing but patient encouragement.

He feels a terrible weight easing off him as he lowers himself. It takes a moment of ungainly arrangement, but he curls up on his side and rests his head on Balin's thigh. Fingers comb through his hair, raising gooseflesh as they drag against his scalp. The back of his neck is held in a firm grip and squeezed now and then until its tense muscles lay down their guard.

His eyes drift shut—only to fly open again when he hears approaching footsteps.

"Hush," Balin says, tightening his hold on Thorin's scruff. "It's only Dwalin clomping about."

Sure enough, Thorin hears the clatter of kindling being tossed down. The tent flap lifts, and Dwalin looks in on them. Thorin feels his shoulder blades draw together, and he levels a mildly threatening glare at Dwalin, daring him to laugh. Dwalin, however, gives no sign of finding Thorin's position amusing. He merely props his war hammer up alongside the other weapons and then sits down and pulls Thorin's feet into his lap.

Worry had dug in with teeth and talons, but it is wiggled loose little by little under the brothers' hands. His feet are worked hard from heel to toe, Dwalin's thumbs digging into his arches and making him gasp. His brow is lightly stroked and the lines of his ear traced, his temples rubbed and his beard smoothed.

Arousal uncurls in his belly. He turns over onto his back, baring himself for further attention. A grasping hand slowly climbs the inside of his leg. Fingertips creep down his throat and tease into the opening of his shirt. His nipples tighten up as the cloth shifts against them, and his cock grows heavier.

Meandering caresses meet at his middle. His shirt raised and his trousers unlaced. He shivers, his fingers digging into the blankets beneath him. This, the feeling of four hands upon him at once, is almost as licentious as the instruments that await him. Common wisdom holds that dwarves love faithfully, with hearts and eyes set to only one passion at a time. To take two lovers at once should be hedonism the likes of which only elves might conceive.

Yet it does not feel covetous. It feels...necessary. As though he might pretend he is not the recipient of twice the pleasure he deserves, because they are brothers after all, of one flesh. Two halves of a whole, with Dwalin's rough earnestness and Balin's careful restraint, and him in the middle of it, outnumbered and overwhelmed as none else could make him.

"You're quite warm," Balin says, a touch of sport in his voice. He lays a hand upon Thorin's brow, the other slipping into the open vee of Thorin's trousers. "Might you feel better with your clothes off?"

He can't help it: he laughs. The sound is short and rough, but he cannot remember the last time even so little mirth crossed his lips.

Dwalin gives a half-amused snort as well. "That's a terrible line."

"And I suppose you can do better?" Balin asks.

"Aye," Dwalin says. "I'd tell him I can't suck his cock when he's got his trousers on."

This time Thorin's laugh is better polished, and he gives a small, imperious wave of his hand. "You may proceed."

Together, they have more than twice his strength. It is as though he weighs nothing at all as they deftly handle him. His hips are raised and his trousers pulled off, his socks following in their wake. He is pushed and pulled at the same moment, sat upright effortlessly, and he only has to raise his arms so that his shirt can be drawn off.

A smooth flutter of linen, and then the open air is pleasantly cool against his skin and Balin's hands are closed around his wrists. He breathes out, flushing even warmer. This is the way of it. First he is undressed, and then he is dressed again—after a fashion.

His hands are drawn down to the small of his back. He laces his fingers together obligingly. Balin's reassuring grip leaves him only for a few moments, long enough for him to listen in anticipation to the unbuckling of a pack and the quiet jingling of a chain. Then his wrists are encased in supple leather.

The butter-soft cuffs are clasped shut, the chain between them only the length of a finger. The leather was cut to his measure alone, never too snug or too slack. The links are steel, and just heavy enough to pull gently at Thorin's shoulders, drawing loose those knots he has carried for weeks.

He sags back into the welcoming embrace of Balin's arms and plump pillows as Dwalin kneels over him. Something tightens in his chest and loosens in his belly at the same time as they surround him. This is what he likes best, for reasons that he hasn't the wits to understand when he is here, and that he hasn't the inclination to dwell upon too long when he isn't. Being pressed between them is like wrapping a tourniquet around a wound. One behind him, one before him, their weight and their warmth closing in, binding him just as surely as the fetters.

Balin drops a peck upon his cheek and then draws a braid aside and peppers his neck with soft, neat kisses that raise gooseflesh in their wake. Dwalin, in turn, is nowhere near as delicate. He lunges in and licks a stripe along Thorin's throat before fixing his mouth to one of his nipples and sucking hard. The heat of it cuts straight through him. His hands twist behind his back as he pushes forward into the press of teeth, and the pull of lips, and the bristle of whiskers. When Dwalin turns his attention to his other nipple, Balin makes up for the lack, rolling the wet, swollen bud between thumb and forefinger.

"Ah..." His head lolls on Balin's shoulder, and he buries his nose in a beard that smells faintly of peppermint oil and mellow pipe-weed.

His eyes are shut, and scant light makes it through the gaps in the tent, but he knows from experience exactly how red his nipples get when Dwalin has been at them. They're sore for hours sometimes, with the crescent imprint of teeth around them, and if he is very lucky, Balin will insist on treating them afterwards with a salve that feels like ice and fire by turn.

The smacking little sucks and stinging bites trade off with pinches until the heat becomes a heavy throbbing. It sinks down into his belly, suffusing his loins, and Dwalin unerringly follows the path, trailing noisy kisses along Thorin's front.

Thorin is notoriously slow to harden when the dark mood has him. Truth be told, he cannot even remember the last time he had a full stand, and for a moment he tenses up again, willing his body not to embarrass him. Yet there is no arguing with Dwalin's mouth, given enough time, nor with Balin's patient hands. Dwalin rubs his rough cheek against Thorin's cock, breathing in audibly, and then licks and nuzzles at him with unhurried attention.

Balin holds him tightly and nibbles distractingly at Thorin's ear. "I happen to know," he whispers, "that he's been thinking about this for weeks."

A vague "Hm?" is all Thorin can muster as Dwalin draws him into his mouth. The slick slide of lips and tongue draw a shiver from him, and then a growing pressure urges him to rise in fits and starts.

Balin strokes his chest, fingers combing through the forest of curls upon his breast. "When no one else is about," he continues, confiding, "he eyes the front of your trousers like it's a platter of tarts straight from the oven."

Dwalin looks up sharply at Thorin's disbelieving snort. He lets Thorin's cock slip with a slurp. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Merely discussing the weather," Balin says. He reaches down and brushes his thumb across his brother's lips.

Thorin's cock lifts abruptly at the sight, bobbing up between them. Dwalin bites Balin's thumb and then gives Thorin a long lick. The coarse rub of whiskers follows, and then an enthusiastic suck that draws Thorin nearly to full length with the sound of it as much as the sensation.

" _Honey_ tarts," Balin murmurs smugly.

Just so, he finds himself served up like a pudding for Dwalin to devour and Balin to savour. He spreads his legs, knees gripping Dwalin's sides as he's sucked to senselessness. Dwalin beds just as vigorously as he fights, without pause for breath or undue restraint. His hands grasp Thorin's hips and hold them down, digging fingermarks into skin.

Thorin moans softly, the sound wavering as Dwalin takes him in even deeper, nose pushing against Thorin's belly and beard rubbing over his stones. Below is single-minded attention, and above, a dozen flittering touches so brief and soft that he can barely keep track of them. Fingernails are lightly drawn over his nipples every time they begin to soften. Teeth scrape gently along his throat. His shoulders are kissed, and his jaw, and his lips.

The word _please_ does not come easily to him. Even here, made naked and needy, he can barely whisper it. The first letter pops softly on his lips as Balin's threaten to withdraw. The middle of the word is almost swallowed, and then the _s_ is mercifully lost as Balin's sharp ears save Thorin's dignity. He is kissed again, and generously again, and again, as well and deeply as the angle will allow.

His peak steals up on him with alarming speed and intensity. He fights it, his heels digging in and a rough sound of protest rasping in his throat as he tries to pull away from Dwalin. It is too soon, too much. He is going to make a fool of himself. Balin's arm tightens around him, holding him still.

"Hush, laddie." Balin kisses him again. "Let it come."

He has no choice. Dwalin's mouth drags it from him and Balin's muffles his cry, and his body contracts like a pulled bowstring in between. A full quiver is loosed, and the greedy sound that Dwalin makes as he swallows it down pulls Thorin tight again and draws another shot from him.

The breath leaves his lights in a forceful rush, and with it go his cares.

For a moment, his mind is blessedly blank. All he knows is the warm arm around him and the chill of air on wet skin as Dwalin lets his cock slip. He softens gradually, the heavy pulse lingering in his loins as Dwalin squeezes his thighs and Balin rubs his stomach.

"That better?" Dwalin asks, wearing his grin in his voice.

Thorin manages a nod. His muscles have gone soft, and he is content to lie idle in the moments to follow. He can hear the soft stir of packs opening and blankets moving, but at least two hands remain upon him amidst the rummaging. The sound of a huffing breath alerts him to what is coming next.

Balin's touch is almost too much for sensitive parts, but the large ring he bears has been conscientiously warmed by breath and hands. Thorin's stones are lifted carefully, one then the other, and drawn through the ring. His cock follows, gently tucked down to fit. The steel settles against him, heavy and comforting.

"There," Balin says, giving Thorin's parts a fond pat.

Dwalin bites at his thigh, softly at first and then a little harder. Thorin parts his knees further in encouragement, hissing softly as Dwalin begins leaving a trail of noisy suck-marks. The flashes of heat make their way up from just above his knees to just below his stones. Then his cheeks are spread apart and a long, wicked lick runs along his cleft.

"Ah..." Thorin's face burns. If his hands weren't bound, he might push at Dwalin's shoulders for the show of it. But they are, and so he is spared acting out the pretence. He slumps, sinking down until his head is cradled in Balin's lap, to be petted and soothed.

When Thorin's leg draws up uncertainly, Balin grasps it behind the knee and pulls it back. His other leg is lifted to match, and then he is held immobile, exposed, and utterly at the mercy of Dwalin's tongue.

It isn't only the sensation that makes him tremble, although that is potent enough to quicken his pulse and paint his face red as Dwalin laps at him with unseemly ardour. Worse—or far, far better—is the intention of it. He is licked, roughly kissed, pierced by the insistent tip of Dwalin's tongue, all with the aim of making him wet and easy, opening him up for fingers or cock or carvings, anything at all they see fit to put inside him.

He is made to melt. Dwalin pushes against him, grunting filthily as he tries to force his tongue in deeper. Heat spreads from Thorin's navel to his knees, and his legs shake so hard that their weight falls entirely into Balin's hands. His hole gives, worked to needy softness.

"I believe," Balin says, "he's going to need more warming up than that."

There is a strange shade to Balin's tone, slight but surely there. Amusement, perhaps, or anticipation. As if the brothers know something that he does not.

A tingle of excitement shoots through him. By rights, he should be wary. At the very least, it ought to discomfit him to think that they discuss him, this, between themselves. Yet it is very difficult to muster cautious thought with Dwalin's teeth sinking into backside and Balin's fingers pressing into his thighs, and all he feels is delicious curiosity.

Dwalin's mouth parts from him with a loud kiss. "Which one?"

The question is not for him. It isn't upon him to make any choices here, save whether to stop or continue. He fights the inclination to wiggle impatiently as he waits for the answer.

"The glass," Balin says after a moment's consideration.

Thorin's mouth shapes a mild "oh" as he breathes out. He has had all manner of ingenious crafting used to stretch him. Smooth wood, carved like a blunt candle and oiled to the sleekness of silk. Polished stone, heavy at the base so that it sat steady beneath him as he lowered himself down upon it.

And glass...

He swallows hard at the glint in the faint light as Dwalin opens up the padded box. It is the thickest one of these instruments, blown into an unnatural shape, something like a sword hilt, to sit inside the body while anchored outside. The last time they brought out the glass, Thorin ended up taking most of Balin's hand afterwards: four fingers and half his palm, or so Dwalin had breathlessly reported. Thorin himself had been in no position to see for himself, his face pressed into a pillow and his breathing coming in gulps and gusts as he was brought to bliss.

Dwalin pulls the cork out of a flask with his teeth and then spits it aside. It hits the wall of the tent and falls silently into the blankets. Oil glugs out from the narrow mouth of the flask into Dwalin's palm. Thorin's toes curl in expectation.

The first touch of the glass is cool against his well-teased hole. It's slick, and the tapered tip breaches him easily. He feels his body grasp at it greedily, unresisting until the guard of it widens dramatically. His breath stops short, and he tenses. Dwalin halts immediately and then pulls it back what must be only a finger's breadth in length but what feels like inches in girth.

Thorin makes a quiet sound of protest, not entirely having wanted it to stop. Balin shifts behind him, leaning down and kissing him atop the head.

"Hush."

More oil is poured out, and when the glass plug pushes forward again, Dwalin slowly twists it to ease the way. Thorin opens for it little by little. That moment of doubt twinges again, but he breathes out slowly and yields. There is pain for an instant, and an almost impossible pressure, but then he feels the cusp of it, the place where it narrows.

And there Dwalin stops again, the thrice-damned son of a warg.

"Dwalin—" His face burns again as his hole pulls at the plug, twitching convulsively.

"Tsk," Balin chides. "Don't tease him, brother."

"Spoilsport," Dwalin grumbles, and he lets go.

It slides into him of its own accord, swallowed up until the pommel comes to rest against his fundament. The grip is not nearly as thick as the guard, but it is still the girth of a stout cock, and much harder than flesh. Thorin tightens around it, feeling it shift inside him, pressing against that sensitive place within.

"Is it all in?" Balin asks.

"Every inch," Dwalin says, his hand on the pommel, nudging it scarcely back and forth.

Balin lowers Thorin's legs gently and rubs his chest and stomach. His hand presses down on Thorin's abdomen, and Thorin swears he can feel the glass pushing back, huge inside him.

"There's a good lad," Balin murmurs warmly.

The words, to his lingering embarrassment, are as pleasurable as the petting. He is entirely too old for such praise, but there is a small, naked part of him that wants to hear it nonetheless. That he is good. That he has done something right. That Balin thinks well of him.

Then Balin reaches aside into his pack and draws out something made of steel and leather.

"A present," he says with that same comforting smile in his voice. "I think you'll like it."

The instrument is held between Balin's hands for him to see. Even then, it takes him several moments to puzzle out its purpose. It is made up of two straps, one with a buckle fixed to its end, and the other awl-punched. They are joined in the middle by four small, curved bars that meet in a large steel ring. The thing has an air of menace, and Thorin's mind flashes upon a half-dozen troubling possibilities before he takes a more objective measure of the straps.

It's a gag, he realises abruptly. Except that it isn't like any gag he has ever seen before. The ring, the space between the bars that would fit at the corners of his lips...it isn't made to stop up the mouth, but rather to hold it open. The implication hits him fully in the space of a breath. What is left of his sense of propriety balks and bucks, even as a hot rush shoots through his belly.

"It will help," Balin says, as if it is nothing at all out of the ordinary.

He is always thus, Balin. Reasonable. Unflappable. Knowing, as if he understands perfectly these strange desires that Thorin himself can hardly put into words. To hear him speak, one would think there was nothing at all out of the ordinary between them.

Thorin hesitates, as he once hesitated before the gifts that already adorn him. He had hidden his face in shame the first time he let himself be penetrated by stone, burning in humiliation at the incontrovertible evidence that he was not merely sacrificing himself for others' use but finding his own wholehearted enjoyment in the breaching. So too had he thought the ring around his cock monstrous upon first sight, a device of torture, and the fetters around his wrists a punishment. Yet understanding had come to him soon enough.

Now, he is grateful for bindings. He does not have to worry about pushing when he means to pull, or of fumbling clumsily when he is so drunk on pleasure that his hands shake. He does not have to keep himself from coming, fighting off the forceful spendings the brothers wring from him. He does not have to know whether his cock stands or lies sleeping. His peak will come when it comes, the firm caress of steel standing in place of his own restraint.

His eyes follow the sleek lines of the gag. When he breathes in deeply, he can catch the scent of newly worked leather. The straps would be just as soft as the cuffs around his wrists. The metal would be unyielding against the soft inside of his mouth, but it would not cut into him. He would not be able to speak—he would not be able to speak wrongly. He would not have to shake himself free from the fog when he is told to open his mouth and suspect, by the patient tone in Balin's voice, that he has been asked more than once.

He nods briskly and clears his throat before testing his voice.

"All right," he says, and then he bites down on his tongue, uncertain of the 'thank you' that lurks at its tip.

"Up you go," Balin says, sounding as though he heard it nonetheless.

Thorin curls his legs beneath himself as they lift him. The plug moves inside him as he kneels up, and he bows his head with a groan as he feels it shift down. He tightens around the smooth glass grip, trying to keep back the weight of it, but the pressure only increases.

"Hold his hair," Balin says, and Dwalin obeys, gathering up Thorin's locks with unexpected solicitousness.

He has to open very wide to fit the ring in his mouth. It settles gently behind his teeth, and the bars spread his lips open even further. Dwalin is staring at him, staring at his mouth, and Thorin has to close his eyes for a moment as Balin fastens the straps.

It feels...strange. He has never thought of his mouth as a private place, no matter how many words he has swallowed back or how few lovers he has kissed. Yet now it feels naked and conspicuous. His tongue confounds him, and he notices with alarm how quickly his mouth grows wet.

He raises his head, trying anxiously to swallow, but Balin catches him by the chin. Dwalin watches closely, staring as his brother's finger traces the inside of the ring before slipping into Thorin's mouth. There is nothing Thorin can do but hold still as Balin strokes first his tongue and then the sensitive place underneath, where a firm rub makes his mouth flood.

A sound of protest scrapes in his throat as the first trickle spills over.

"It's all right," Balin murmurs. He withdraws his finger and begins smearing the wetness over Thorin's lips. "Messy is better fun than tidy, hm?"

It's all right, he tells himself, exhaling. It's all right to let his mouth hang open. It's all right to make a mess of himself. He can hear Dwalin's breathing quicken.

"There," Balin says with one last polish of Thorin's lower lip. "Doesn't he look sweet, brother?"

Dwalin still has a grip on Thorin's hair, and it tightens. His gaze is still fixed to Thorin's open mouth, and the desire is plain in his eyes, written so broadly that it would almost be lecherous if it was not illuminated by a near-helpless parting of his lips that never fails to make Thorin colour and squirm.

"Sweet isn't the word I'd use," Dwalin says, his voice low. He rises abruptly to his feet. His trousers are straining at the laces, almost groaning over the bulge beneath. Then he loops Thorin's hair around his fist once more, twice more, and Thorin is reeled in willingly.

His mouth leaves a dark spot on the front of Dwalin's trousers as he traces where the placket strains. He breathes in deeply, catching the scent of salty musk beneath a hint of pine soap. 

"Let me..." Dwalin's voice is as tight as his laces. He pushes Thorin back just long enough to yank open his placket in two impatient pulls. He isn't wearing anything underneath, and his cock rises up the moment it's freed.

Thorin leans forward as far as the hand in his hair will allow, watching with a shiver of hunger as Dwalin strokes himself. Thick fingers curl and pull, working Dwalin's cock to full swell and lift. Then Dwalin leans forward, and the hot length slides along Thorin's cheek. 

He tries to turn his head toward it, eyes shut and tongue darting out, but Dwalin holds him fast. His beard bristles as it's rubbed askew by another push and another, and the head of Dwalin's cock grows damp, drawing a sticky smear across his cheekbone. The blood rushes up to his face, spreading to the tips of his ears. His other cheek is besmirched to match, and then the wet smudge is drawn down to his upper lip. 

Dwalin pulls back, and Thorin opens his eyes to see the glint of a long thread stretching from the slit of Dwalin's cock. His tongue reaches up instinctively, but it cannot quite reach his lip. A small sound of frustration creaks in his throat. 

"Want a taste?" Dwalin asks, and at the smallest nod, he slides his cock through the ring into Thorin's waiting mouth. "Anything you want."

It is more than a taste. Dwalin pushes in slowly and doesn't stop until he reaches the threshold of Thorin's throat, halting just shy of making him sputter. There he halts, his cock lying heavy on Thorin's tongue and his eyes fixed and bright. Thorin breathes in through his nose, gulping down a salt-tinged swallow. 

"You look..." Dwalin falters as though the word will not come to him. 

Perhaps it is for the best. Thorin can only guess at what he looks like, his cheeks daubed with early seed and his head tipped backwards and his throat bobbing. He is hardening again, his cock swelling in a series of slow throbs. 

Balin rubs his back, his hand moving down slowly. His fingers entangle with Thorin's and briefly squeeze before taking hold of the glass pommel. The weight of the thing abruptly eases, and Thorin cries out in a gurgle as it's pushed further up him.

"Oh," Dwalin sighs, holding Thorin's chin steady and slowly fucking his mouth. "Make him do that again."

As unerringly as if Thorin were a puppet on strings, Balin wrenches the sound from him with a neat turn of his hand. The glass has warmed from his body, almost as hot as flesh inside him, but far less forgiving, stretching him anew with every minute twist and thrust.

There is something about the rhythm that lulls him even as it excites him. Back and forth, the push and pull, filled at both ends. The heat in his face has not ebbed, and the rest of him soon burns just as hot. His lips and his fingertips pulse in time with his heartbeat, and a queer feeling steals over him, like sleep in the small hours of wakefulness. 

It makes him groan a complaint when his mouthful is taken away. Dwalin tilts him up by the chin, and his head falls back dizzily. Then there is only the rapid motion of Dwalin's hand, and a bullish blow and snort, and the first warm, slick drops on his tongue. It drips into his mouth like cream from the pitcher, so much that he struggles to swallow it all.

Dwalin catches the overspill that slides down Thorin's chin, gathering the spunk up on his fingers and pushing it back over the rim of Thorin's lip. There his fingers idle, tenderly stroking the inside of Thorin's cheek before withdrawing. He gazes down at Thorin with that same half-helpless look of surprise, and then he drops to his knees and covers Thorin's shoulders with kisses.

Everything slows sweetly for a time. Thorin is teased and petted, and made much of in a quiet, rough way. His shoulders are rubbed, strong fingers digging in hard until the last knots of muscle untie themselves. His nipples are pulled and played with, brought to burning and back. The brothers undress at their leisure in between: a shirt pulled overhead, the thump of boots, the rustle of trousers.

He cannot help it: he fidgets eagerly, wanting to feel the scrub of coarse hair against his skin and the newly bared heat of them both. His fingers grasp behind him, curling around Balin's cock. It is not standing yet—as he likes to remind them, Balin has several years' patience on both him and Dwalin—but it is flushed warm and heavy and stirs subtly between his palms. 

"Oh ho!" Balin laughs softly and presses a noisy kiss to Thorin's neck.

"Is he giving you a tug?" Dwalin perks up and cranes his neck. "Let me see."

Balin kisses Thorin's neck again and then nibbles at his ear. "Bonny lad. I'd have your mouth."

Thorin would give it to him, and gladly. He goes easily when Balin draws him down. No, in truth, it is more than that: he twists and pushes forward, unmindful of his bound hands, so apt that he should be ashamed of himself. He knows, beneath the belated tingle of embarrassment, that his mouth would be running wet even if it wasn't pried open.

He ends up on his knees, a pillow between his chest and Balin's thigh propping him up so that he can proceed at his leisure. It is different with Balin, different from sucking off Dwalin, different from being sucked off himself. The pleasure of it sits elsewhere, not entirely in his loins but in his stomach and rolling down his back. In no land or tongue could the act of cocksucking be called chaste, or even cosy, but the unmistakable warmth of comfort entwines with excitement as he squirms forward.

Balin as a habit asks for no urgency and offers a softly breathless appreciation that makes Thorin hungry and sated both at once. It isn't like quaffing ale—the greedy pull of mouth and throat—but a full meal of the sort taken with bare fingers on an idle evening. Coming isn't the point of it, as strange as it sounds. He has never kept a tally, but he suspects he has had Balin's cock in his mouth at least twice as often as he's swallowed his spunk.

The point of it is his lips rubbing over the slowly swelling length. It is the faint scent of musk that makes his nostrils flare. It is the hand gently stroking his hair, and Balin's belly against his cheek, and the way it feels more like an embrace than fucking. Some evenings, when he knows what dreams lie ahead of him, he thinks about this. In his imagination, he knocks at Balin's door—no, he does not even knock, he slips inside to find a room already dark and Balin abed. There, he might join him silently and retreat beneath the cover of blankets. There, he would lie between Balin's thighs and do as he wished, lazily, drowsily, passing all the night with his mouth put to indolent work.

"Lovely," Balin says with a sigh. "Just lovely."

There is no real skill in what he offers. His mouth held agape, he can only nuzzle and lick, pleasing himself as much as Balin. The slide of hot skin against his lips and cheek and chin makes him shiver, and he pushes into the hand slowly combing through his hair with cat-like indulgence. He angles for more, his tongue stretching out beseechingly and pulling as best it can. His knees dig into the blankets as he squirms forward, and it is with a small cry of satisfaction that he finally draws Balin's cock fully into his mouth.

He cannot quite suck, not properly, not with the firm press of steel behind his teeth and his lips fighting to close. Yet he is filled up nonetheless, the weight of Balin's cock upon his tongue and its tip teasing at the back of his throat, sending a thrill through him every time he swallows. 

Balin guides him, cradling the back of his head. He is gentle, drawing Thorin shallowly forward and back, softly fucking his mouth. His thumb brushes back and forth against the side of Thorin's neck, raising gooseflesh. A warm, drowsy feeling steals up on Thorin, peaceful despite his undignified state. It starts in his belly, heavy and sweet, and it spreads through his limbs, as if melted gold is flowing through his veins. The messy rhythm of his sopping mouth on Balin's cock is accompanied by the subtle percussion of heavy breathing, and then by the brisk caress of Dwalin's hand between his thighs. 

He groans as Dwalin roughly tumbles his stones. They are heavy, hanging almost painfully full beneath the constriction of the ring. Dwalin's hand is cool in contrast as it cups and jostles them, and then his breath blazes against Thorin's bare buttocks. A firm bite drives forth a muffled yelp, but the sound soon melts into something more appreciative as Dwalin scatters brief, sharp bites all over his backside. 

His arse tightens and his hips rock as he tries to fuck himself on the plug. It is far too smooth and still to scratch his itch, and he whimpers in frustration, straining forward with a noisy gurgle. 

"That sounds nice," Dwalin says, draping himself over Thorin to get a closer look. His thighs press against the burning bite-marks as he draws Thorin's hair aside and nips at the back of his neck, just below his brother's hand.

"It feels even nicer." Balin sounds so pleased that it makes Thorin's stomach flutter.

"I want a turn at him," Dwalin says. He squeezes Thorin's hip at the interruption of another gurgle. "Listen to you. Is he tasty?"

Thorin can manage no reply, but the eager slurp of his mouth is perhaps answer enough.

"You've already had a turn," Balin says. "In fact, if I might point out, half your turn is still drying on his chin." He strokes Thorin's besmirched beard.

What must he look like? The image flashes through his mind, and he knows he ought to recoil from it, but it inflames him instead, leaving him breathless with the memory of the evening they both finished on his face. Bound and blindfolded, feverish from being fucked for what had felt like hours with every wicked carving Balin had packed, he had arched up sightlessly towards the quick slap of hand on cock, a growl and a sigh above his only warnings before he was covered in two copious spendings that had dripped down his throat and cheeks in equal measure.

"I want another turn, then," Dwalin says, his voice low and demanding, and of a dangerous pitch that only Balin seems never to take to heart.

Sure enough, Balin only clucks his tongue and fondly runs one fingertip down the length of Thorin's nose. "It isn't my fault you wasted yours pulling yourself off. Nice things are meant to be savoured."

Thorin feels a fresh blush bloom in his cheeks and creep down his neck. His tongue slides along Balin's cock in a twisting slither, earning him a welcome gasp.

"I could fuck him," Dwalin says entreatingly. "Just for a bit."

Arousal draws tight in Thorin's stomach as Dwalin punctuates his offer with a roll of his hips. 'Just for a bit' would not be his preference, but the first part sounds right.

"You're not even hard," Balin points out.

"I will be soon enough." Dwalin rubs against him again, more insistently this time. His cock nudges between Thorin's buttocks, feeling firmer with every push. 

Balin makes a considering noise, seemingly amused by Dwalin's initiative. "Would you like that, laddie—letting Dwalin have a go?"

Thorin nods, moaning a yes around Balin's cock. It is a very silly question, given what being put between them always does to him. Their hands become his bonds when they share him, clasped tightly to his hips and his shoulders. Their weight and strength hold him fast, and they open him up so thoroughly that he sometimes thinks he will turn inside out altogether. 

"That's very generous of you," Balin says approvingly, petting Thorin's cheek where it bulges around his cock. "Say thank you, Dwalin."

"Thank you, Thorin," Dwalin echoes obediently, sounding quite sincere before he leaves a trail of sharp, half-gnawing kisses along Thorin's backbone.

It is all Thorin can do not to squirm in anticipation. If he had a tail, it would certainly be wagging, and as it is, his fingers and toes curl as Dwalin draws back and audibly pours another glug of oil from the flask. He is grateful for the gag and for his thick mouthful, or else he could easily beg for Dwalin to hurry, for Dwalin to put it in—shove it in—and stretch him wide and fill him with spunk until he's sore and dripping. But the words bubble up into nonsense, hot and wet and unintelligible around Balin's cock, and soon enough Dwalin's slippery fingers are grasping at the glass pommel, and Thorin knows he will get exactly what he wants nonetheless.

The plug slides from him with breathtaking smoothness. He can feel himself grasp for it, empty, and he groans in frustration until Dwalin's warm fingers fill him up again. Slick sounds follow: oil pushed inside him, spread about until he can feel it dripping from him, and then the wet slap of Dwalin stroking himself with a slippery hand.

He waits, his mouth working pleadingly around Balin's cock, and then his cheeks are pried apart and his hole stretched as Dwalin enters him. His breath comes out hard through his nose, and a low moan unrolls slowly from his chest to his throat to his lips. Dwalin is deliciously thick and far longer than the glass carving, sliding in impossibly deep.

Thorin's thighs tremble and his fingers clutch at nothing. Balin rubs his back in long, soothing sweeps. The sweet, heavy feeling inside him intensifies as Dwalin's thighs press against his own. This is the part that undoes him every time. He is filled at both ends, held fast, held open, with their hands on his hips, on his shoulders, in his hair, drawing him forward, pulling him back.

His mouth falters, and Balin takes up the slack, clasping him by the back of the neck with one hand and tenderly cupping his jaw with the other. It starts off slowly, gently, with the bare nudge of Dwalin's hips against his own. He thinks of water lapping up against the shore, back and forth. A hand moves beneath him and wraps around his cock, rubbing lazily.

It lulls him, this motion, not unlike being rocked to sleep. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth of the brothers' bodies, and the drip of oil and dribble of his own spit, and the way his breathing slows as theirs quickens. The rhythm builds bit by bit. Balin's cock intrudes at the back of his throat as Dwalin pushes him forward. He sputters, swallows, and then hears himself moan demandingly for more.

He cannot say how long they use him so—how long they let him have them. The ability to count is rather beyond him at the moment, and so he cannot measure it in thrusts or shadows or heartbeats. Back and forth until he is dreaming. He feels as if the ground might be melting beneath him, swallowing him up.

When speech finally intrudes, it buzzes over his skin, felt as much as heard.

"Pace yourself," Balin says, sounding breathless. "We don't want to spoil his dinner."

The words mean nothing to him for several moments. His hip is squeezed and his hair is stroked. The rhythm rocking him slows, gradually at first and then with finality. He makes a small, unhappy cry as Dwalin eases out of him.

"Hush," Balin says, lifting Thorin off his cock, leaving his mouth shockingly cold. "It's all right."

Thorin is aware of being turned over, although he isn't certain how. His limbs feel heavy as stone, but they move him as if his bones are hollow.

"He's shaking, poor thing," Balin murmurs.

His abandonment is remedied by a snug embrace and large hands rubbing his shoulders. Someone kisses his neck, whispering nonsense. The kisses meander downwards over his chest and stomach. His cock is sucked softly, just enough to make him squirm.

"Shhh."

Cold water drips onto his lips a moment later. It is only then that he realises his eyes are still shut, and he opens them to find Dwalin holding a water-skin. Dwalin fills his cupped palm with water and lets it spill into Thorin's open mouth. Thorin strains up, suddenly aware of how parched he is. Dwalin carefully gives him more, letting him drink little by little until his thirst is quenched. Another handful is rubbed coolly over his brow and lips and the back of his neck.

"Better?" Dwalin asks.

Thorin nods, the motion coming slowly to him. He feels drunk, but pleasantly so, as if he is sinking slowly into a vat of honeyed wine.

Balin hums, sounding pleased. "Shall we have another turn?"

Thorin nods again, pushing back against Balin and hooking his ankle around Dwalin's back. Whatever they want, and whatever they will give him.

They once again lift him as easily as a mother hound might scruff a pup. Balin props himself up against a mound of blankets and furs, and Thorin is drawn down atop him, settling in astride his lap. He puts his whole weight against him, his chin hooked over Balin's shoulder and his cock pressed against the welcoming softness of Balin's belly. More oil is called for, and within a few moments, Balin is pressing blessedly up into him.

He cannot ride, not in this state—his legs will not lift him—but Balin takes him by the hips and gives him a very pleasant jostle nonetheless. Thorin cries out, pushing plaintively against him.

"More?" Balin guesses. 

Thorin moans his hungry agreement, but the sound lodges in his throat when it becomes apparent that 'more' is not 'harder' or 'deeper' but _more_. Balin's slippery fingers circle his hole, touching the place where they are joined, and then one pushes inside.

Dizziness rushes over him as his belly tenses in a violent contraction. He is far too befuddled to say for certain if he's just come. The unsatisfied throbbing in his stones suggests no, but he can feel a touch of wetness smearing between his cock and Balin's belly.

"Let me see?" Dwalin says, shifting behind him.

Thorin twists his neck as well, unable to glimpse anything but the subtle, wicked motion of Balin's hand. His other senses tell the tale better. He can feel the strange, pleasurable slide of both finger and cock inside him. The pressure increases—two fingers? His belly tenses again. He can hear the dry click of Dwalin swallowing hard at what he sees.

"More?" Balin asks.

His thoughts will not hold together. He cannot imagine what more than this would be, but he wants it, and he nods. Vague murmuring floats around him as more oil is procured. He knows the sound of the flask being tossed aside. Then...oh, then he feels Dwalin's chest against his back, and the image comes to him.

He freezes in astonishment. Both Balin and Dwalin immediately go still as well. They are silent, waiting for his verdict. Thorin forces himself back to his senses and nods vigorously against Balin's shoulder, and then again, lest they think he wants to stop.

"Here we go, now," Balin says, stroking the back of Thorin's thigh. "Nice and slow."

What follows halts the breath in Thorin's chest. They go so slowly and with such care that he trembles in anticipation. Gentle, slick caresses tease him. His teeth would be chattering if they could.

"There..."

The difference is subtle, but he knows it when he's stretched not only by Balin's fingers but one of Dwalin's as well. They move slightly out of accord, nearly in counterpoint, touching him inside until his eyes sting with tears at the overwhelming sensation.

"I think he's ready."

He feels the hot brand of Dwalin's cock against his back. The brothers shift, adjusting in small movements, negotiating space and angles. A thought flits distantly through Thorin's mind: It cannot possibly work, can it? How can it be done?

Yet their fingers leave him, and Dwalin presses forward, and a cry of mad pleasure rises up inside him as he's breached. The pull inside him is breathtaking, and for a moment he is certain that his body will not allow it, but Dwalin pushes a little more, a little more, and something yields. He shakes helplessly, moaning in wanton, disbelieving encouragement as Dwalin eases in just as slowly as he had their very first time together, when Thorin was young and untried.

"Breathe, laddie," Balin says, his voice heavy with arousal. "In. Out. There you are."

It takes all of Thorin's concentration to obey. All he can feel is his own heartbeat, in his fingertips and in his toes, in his throat and in his cock, and _there_ , where they are both inside him, rubbing off together with him crushed between them. He is buried alive in their embrace, and he would gladly be smothered if it meant no end to this sublime feeling.

"Slowly, now," Balin murmurs.

Dwalin curses under his breath, his palms sweaty on Thorin's hips as he begins to move. Even the smallest motion makes Thorin's eyes roll back in his head. The pressure against that sensitive place inside of him is almost too much to bear, sending lightning shooting through him. The brothers' heavy breathing shrouds him, and below it are obscene sounds of squelching oil and skin upon skin upon skin. 

He can feel Dwalin's growl rumble through his back, and Balin's soft, low moaning hums against his chest. His own wordless animal sounds trip senselessly from his tongue and spill from his mouth. Yes, please, yes. Yes. _Yes_.

His very bones seem to shiver as the brothers build up to a sweet, gentle screwing. He is so full, so impossibly full.

"Breathe, laddie."

He cannot, not when that ripple starts in his loins and his light both at once. His entire body is jolted, and a deep sob is driven forth. His cock gives an almighty pulse, and he feels Balin's belly grow slick as he frots desperately against it. Teeth dig into his shoulder, the bright flare of heat binding him to his flesh when it seems like his spirit might shake loose entirely.

Up, up he soars, and he cannot come down. His peak does not abate, not as he's rocked more firmly between them. He shivers anew with every thrust as the brothers seek their release. Rough moans roll over him, mingling with snatches of muttered words.

"Let me—"

"—ah, he's—"

"—cannae—"

It seems to Thorin that they come not all that far apart. Dwalin is noisier, all but snarling as his hands clutch Thorin tightly and his hips grind down. Balin's is the one that buoys him up with the sudden rise of the broad chest beneath him. He can feel the breathy tickle of a barely voiced: "Oh...oh, laddie."

He is held just so for what feels like a very long time. Heartbeats slow. Breathing calms. He cannot say which of them slips from him first, but he feels the copious load of spunk that drips down his thigh in its wake. Fingers trail through the mess and rub over his well-used hole.

"There's a good lad," Balin says softly, and, "Hush now, all's well," and "Didn't that feel lovely?"

In time, when he has finally stopped shaking, the cuffs are removed from his wrists. Balin massages his hands and makes him wiggle his fingers. The ring is eased off from around his cock and stones, leaving a residual throbbing behind. The gag is unfastened next, and Thorin's mouth feels stretched and strange without it. Balin rubs his jaw for him, which helps a little, and then lets him drink freely from the water-skin.

Dwalin wraps an arm around him and pulls him down into the blankets, holding him with the casual liberty of a friend and drinking companion. In contrast to this intimacy, Balin's attentions grow subtly brisker afterwards, as they always do. His manner is that of a trusted attendant, restoring Thorin's dignity with each small service.

A wet cloth cools his brow and his eyelids. The mess of dried saliva and spunk is thoroughly cleaned from his mouth and chin. His chest is next, and then his belly. His private places follow, and he is far too exhausted to summon any embarrassment.

Sleep pulls persuasively at him, and though he struggles for a moment, he soon gives in. There will be time for hunting later, and there is surely bread and cheese enough for dinner otherwise. Later, they will sit around a fire and talk of inconsequential things, or tell old stories and watch the stars come out. There will be love again, perhaps less urgent, with all three of them under the furs, or Balin watching as Thorin and Dwalin tussle.

Dwalin's breathing already carries the rasp of a snore, and Thorin can feel himself sinking into his own body, into senselessness. For now, at least, there will be no more dark dreams.

A blanket settles gently atop him, and Balin leans down to kiss his temple.

"Sleep well, my king."


End file.
